Come Home Safe
by Optimum Ace
Summary: An ODST considers what it is to be human and the impact of morality and mortality while standing watch at a colonial outpost. What anchors a soul to life? Is it purpose? Religion? Curiosity? Instinct? Or maybe, just another soul with as many questions as our own.


**Author's Note** : Hello dear readers. Before you is a simple story inspired by a Garry's Mod Halo RP. Those of you interested in joining the action and drama should most certainly look for the CloseQuartersNation Halo RP server on Garry's Mod! I hope you enjoy this look into the mind of a seasoned ODST trooper!

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We humans are the most dangerous thing in the galaxy. On so many levels we operate seemingly in paradox. We are solitary creatures, yet we form kingdoms and countries, armies of one ideal pitted against another. We are desperate. At every evolutionary level we reach for survival, yet our penchant for dealing death is extreme. When backed into a corner will will make those who put us there suffer dearly regardless of the cost. When the end is inevitable, we will _always_ get even. We are curious. For as many as are blinded by zeal, there will be an equal number calling the established order into question. We hunt for the truth, and when the light shines through the wool pulled over our eyes we begin digging at it feverishly. We will dissect and examine and question everything we know. Understanding cannot be allowed to evade us. We must advance, we must know _everything_. There can be no secrets from humanity, we will not allow it.

I've put a great deal of time into thinking about this. On those early morning perimeter assignments, as the warm light of a fresh day spills across the horizon towards me in rivers of orange-gold, I always go back to those thoughts. It must be why humans were never offered a place amongst the Covenant. So many other races found themselves at home in their ranks. We weren't even offered a chance. Go figure, the Covenant Prophets took one look at us and knew that we would shoot a thousand holes in their 'Great Journey' hocus pocus. We would question, and search, and dig -blind obedience could not be assured. Humans would _poison_ the Covenant.

Funny, isn't it, that we poisoned them anyway? We fought so hard against them, and destroyed enough of that which they held sacred that the divinity and validity of their Prophets were called into question. After all that time as a unified Covenant, their war with _humans_ caused civil strife. Not to say we were the _only_ cause, but one could speculate that such dissolution would not have occurred without us.

Humanity managed to accrue enough power to turn back the Covenant, and now that they've been all but crushed we look again to old grudges. Sickening how we can spend decades killing aliens and putting aside old grievances, then pick up right where we left off killing each other. I would say I don't know how they do it -how they could ever point a gun at another human again and pull the trigger. That would be a lie, though. I've done it myself; I've lined up the shot and riddled another person with bullets until they collapsed in a bloody heap. I can do it because I am human, and apparently we're not the only ones capable of it. The Sangheili kill each other just as readily.

I shudder to think that we may have taught them. Worse, they'd gotten _by_ their internal squabbles and we punted them back and crushed centuries of progress. Then again, that seems unlikely and I take comfort in that observation.

"Sev?" A soft and familiar voice calls my name; feminine, weighted with concern. I turn my helmeted head to cast a glance over my shoulder. A woman is climbing up the battlement ramp towards me, a thermos in each hand. Long wavy locks of blonde hair, looking truly golden in the radiance of dawn, spill over her shoulders and frame the soft features of her face. It is a healer's face, compassionate and infinitely kind -a rare compounded paradox of the _human_ paradox. Hers is a face that has let the darkness brush past without partaking of its sweet, poisonous promises.

"Good morning, Amelia," I say. I wish she could see me smile for her behind the visor of the helmet encasing my head. She should know that she makes me smile, she should know without me having to tell her. She probably _does_ know; she's intuitive in ways I will never be. Amelia smiles as if reading my thoughts, which of course causes me to smile wider.

"You've been out here a long time," she says, stepping up to me and taking a place at my side. "I thought you might appreciate some coffee." I love this woman. Not because she brought me coffee. I loved her before that, but sometimes the admission just forces itself into the forefront of my mind. We'll just be talking, or sitting together at the fire in comfortable silence, laughing or sharing a meal -then it will flash like a bolt of lightning invading my thoughts: I love this woman. But I can't be upset by the intrusive words, because they are true and that makes me happy.

I extend my hand towards her, letting my SAW hang by the sling. She smiles a bit wider and extends one of the thermoses towards me. I don't go for the thermos. I caress the side of her face instead, letting the tips of my fingers map the softness of her cheek. Somewhere in my surface thoughts, I am thankful my gloves are fingerless. Amelia's smile softens, the strong front she is putting up for me allowed to relax just a bit. As a civilian surgeon, treating wounds of war must be tiring, yet she carries on like any other seasoned veteran. She is stronger than I am, a pacifist who sticks to her morals. I bemoan killing, though I continue to bloody my hands so that purity like hers can be preserved. It is a sacrifice I can justify, if only just for Amelia.

"Thank you," I say, letting my hand come away from her cheek so that I may recover the generous offer of caffeine. Turning to the sandbags in front of me, I set the thermos down. I push it into the bag and wiggle it around to make sure it has a stable stand before I reach up to my helmet. Each seal is snapped open with a pop and hiss, the pressurized environment leaking out into the fresh morning air. I pull the helmet off and set it at my feet before retrieving the thermos and searching for the button on the side that will open the drinking port.

Amelia laughs at me while I bring the thermos to my mouth for a sip of the much-needed coffee. My eyes slide sidelong to her, but I wait to take my drink before posing the question already chambered and loaded in my throat.

"What?" I ask, unable to keep myself from smiling. Her smoky blue eyes twinkle with amusement. Without answering my question, she reaches up beyond the difference in our height to slide her fingers into my hair. Another chuckle bubbles from her lips and I find myself chuckling in response.

"Your hair is a mess," she says, looking at the dark brown mane atop my head. It is a mundane head of hair in my opinion, dark brown and overgrown from long deployment; an annoying mop I need to stuff in my helmet every day. Amelia likes it though, she likes that she can run her fingers through it. I've passed up several chances to get it cut.

"Yours would be too if you needed to wear a helmet for sixteen hours at a time," I counter, but it is all in good fun. I lean my head into her touch and close my eyes, able to forget for a moment that I am on a world turned hostile. That this budding colony is rife with insurrectionists and Covenant remnants in search of Forerunner artifacts. I remember quickly enough, opening my eyes again and looking out to the expanse beyond the perimeter of the outpost for movement.

Nothing. Nothing _yet_ anyway.

Amelia slides her hand down from the top of my head, to my cheek, down my neck, and onto the chestplate of my ODST ballistic armor. Her finger traces the heart she drew on it months ago, the red marker has yet to fade. There is a fresh scratch in it however, a souvenir of deflected shrapnel from the grenade that took Private Bordeaux's life. Her smile is upended.

"Remember your promise," she says, her voice tight with worry. I narrowly avoided death on more than one occasion recently, and the state of affairs seems only to be getting worse. How long before scratched armor becomes flesh wounds? How long before flesh wounds become lost limbs? How long before the mission that I don't come home, leaving Amelia alone again? She never gives voice to these questions, but I know they are there. I've seen them in the way she holds me. I've seen it on the days she thinks she's woken up before me and simply watches me sleep.

"Come home safe," I reply, echoing the words Amelia wrote on the forearm of my gauntlet the same day she drew the heart. Despite being a soldier, I fully intend to keep my promise. I never lie to her, even if that lie might make her feel better. If I didn't think I could keep the promise, I would not have made it. I have something to live for, and I'll be damned if that hasn't already saved my life a few times.

She looks uncertain for a moment, fidgeting with her fingers. Amelia likely does not find the words as reassuring as she wanted them to be. I can understand that. A step closer or to the right of Bordeaux and I would be dead too. My mortality is a little more real to her now, I'm not the mythical figure she might have believed when we first met. I'm not as bulletproof as she might have hoped. A pang of guilt echoes off the bones in my chest; I want to be those things, but I am just as human and flawed as any other. One day some insurgent or covenant soldier may make me a liar.

I stuff the thermos into one of the empty pouches on my combat harness and step forward, circling an arm around her waist. Cupping her chin in my other hand, I gently lift her face enough to capture her lips with mine. I love this woman. She responds by wrapping her arms around my neck, smoky blues falling shut to savor this tender moment of togetherness. I do the same, tucking every detail of this memory into a deep fold of my brain to call upon when the hellfire is licking at my boots.

The kiss breaks but we continue to hold one another. I rest my head against hers and she is smiling again. It warms my heart, and I feel again like I can truly keep my promise.

"I love you, Amelia," I say, speaking softly. The words are meant for her and her alone, not even to be shared with the wind or grass.

"I love you too, Celadon," she affirms, squeezing me a little tighter. I want to stay like that forever, want to be tangible and close whenever she needs me. My helmet begins to squawk and remind me that I can't. I let Amelia go and pluck the headgear from the ground, I dare not look to see if she is disappointed or anxious.

"This is Pelican Lima-221, we've been shot down." I can hear the voice before I even get the helmet all the way back on. "Two of the marines in back are KIA and we have multiple wounded! Enemy forces are closing on our position, over."

"Copy that Lima-221. This is UNSC Outpost Alpha, we're sending in the cavalry! Sergeant Sevchenko, get your squad to the 'hogs and get to Lima-221's position. Bring'em home ODST's!" I know before the words even leave his mouth that we are going to bring the lost marines home. I am keying up my squad radio channel before the outpost commander even finishes giving his orders.

"Foxtrot Squad, you heard the Major!" I say, anxiety and uncertainty forgotten for the sake of saving the stranded soldiers. Nobody gets left behind, as it has always been. "Mount up! Four 'hogs: two transport, two LAAG's!" The order is received with a chorus of "on it sarge!"

I turn back to Amelia, she already knows I have to go. She smiles for me, but I know that it is _only_ for me. It is a strained smile, though I appreciate the effort more than words can express. Leaving with a smile fresh in my heart does me leagues better than leaving her with a frown. I take her into my arms one more time, holding her with snug desperation. We do not exchange goodbyes; this is not goodbye. I will see her tonight for dinner, and I will tell her about my day. She will tell me about hers and we will joke that I have the easy job.

I tell Amelia that I love her one more time before I finally turn to head down to the motor pool. I can hear the rumble of the Warthog engines from here, the roaring beasts ready to carry us out into the fray.

It is scarcely five minutes before we are all loaded and exiting the outpost perimeter. In the distance I can see a thin column of acrid black smoke curling into the morning sky, foreboding against the golden radiance of dawn.

" _I_ will _come home safe_ ," I think, gathering my resolve, " _and I will kill anyone who tries to make me a liar_." I love that woman, she is most certainly all that is good in me.


End file.
